


Precipice

by Insatiable_Fox



Series: Monthly Drarry Drabble Challenge [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drarry Discord Writers Corner Drabble Challenge, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 03:11:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18241217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insatiable_Fox/pseuds/Insatiable_Fox
Summary: "You look at him. Pale hair over paler skin, sunken flesh and rosy lips, limbs entwined with yours upon the tatted sheets of childhoods past."Two broken boys in a crumbling world.





	Precipice

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at a drabble with the prompt 'different'.  
> Any mistakes are my own.  
> Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

 

He’s huddled in an empty doorway when you find him. Concrete, hard and unforgiving, bites into his swallow flesh. Blankets, ragged and stale, a pathetic attempt to keep frostbite from his limbs. His head rests, dejected, to the cold wall supporting him. Even your footsteps aren’t enough to drag him from the stygian crevices of his mind, the voids that require sacrifice to enter. You know this from experience; the final price paid always more than one is willing to give. He’s saved you from the abyss - you fight to do the same.  

 

“Draco,” you say, your hand on a shoulder too narrow and sharp, twin of your own. Chaos coloured eyes flick to your face before shuttering, and you know without needing words the shadows of past haunt him once again.

 

He’s always been better at this than you. Despite the saviour badge pinned unwilling on your chest, it’s he who has the ability to pull others back from the precipice. In contrast, you’re awkward; stumbling words and shaking hands, his name on your lips jagged in panic. Still. For him, you try.

 

He’s the only one left you love.

 

You apparate him home. Place him on your bed. Strip him from the filthy rags of muggle streets. Press your lips revelry to the hollow of his hip bone, follow the lines with your tongue, drink in the near inaudible sob when you take him in your mouth. His hands reach to tangle in your hair, the tug of strands keeping you sane; the sharp stab of pain keeping you whole.

 

His body stiffens a moment, before bitterness floods your tongue, the muffled groan that escapes echoing in the empty shell of a fallen Order. Once upon a time, you had to silence these walls. Now, the two of you are the only ones left to hear. Not even ghosts are willing to roam the hall’s which bore witness to the death of the Phoenix.

 

“Harry.” You whimper at the sound of your name, drawing off him and moving up, pressing your face to the crook of his neck. His hands, before lifeless, now press soothingly to your side, fingers fluttering over ribs as gaunt as his own. “We’re here. We’re okay.”

 

You know the words. Grimmauld’s been privy to the utterance countless times, over countless years; a meaningless mantra to the dark and dust after the shuddering of surrender.

 

Somehow, he makes it sound like a prayer.

 

You look at him. Pale hair over paler skin, sunken flesh and rosy lips, limbs entwined with yours upon the tatted sheets of childhoods past. Here, in the bowels of an abandoned refuge left to rot, he is beautiful, and you refuse to believe you are both condemned.

This is not the end.

     

 


End file.
